


The Deathsong of Arthur Pendragon

by Logical Vulcan (TheFinalFrontier87)



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-11-23 03:02:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20885051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFinalFrontier87/pseuds/Logical%20Vulcan
Summary: Merlin is more than a thousand years old, still living by the Lake of Avalon. He waits for Arthur to return in vain. On one fateful day, he finds an old magical object in his home that may allow him to have some hope again.  (Side note: I am not sure if this idea has been used, but I thought of it on my own. I do not plagiarize).





	The Deathsong of Arthur Pendragon

_I want to say… something I've never said to you before._

_Thank you._

* * *

The Lake of Avalon was clear as glass, as it always seemed to be, whether in rain or sun, wind or calm.

It never felt right when the weather was nice. It always seemed better when it was dark and stormy, when Merlin could sit on the steps of his cottage with his eyes looking to the cloudy heavens, letting the wind rifle his hair and the rain run down his face like tears.

_It's been so long. _

And it has. It's been years and years and years and after a long, interminable time, Merlin finally stopped waiting on Avalon's shores for his friend, his other half. He stopped seeing his golden hair everywhere he went. He stopped hearing his voice in the crowds. Watching sports no longer reminded him of the tournaments.

A thousand years, it took, for the pain to dull.

But even then, it didn't feel like living, like it did when Merlin was young. It felt like nothing, and even when he would forget about everything, he was still only living for the promise Kilgarrah made all those years ago:

Arthur would return.

His life felt like gray skies and cloudy humid days. He never ventured outside his property, never found love, never made friends. He paid bills when necessary, but planted a garden to grow his own food, and tried very hard not to think of Gaius' cooking when he made soup.

Of course, he had to move once in a while (although he could never find the heart to move away from Avalon's shores) and he used aging spells to make sure the locals wouldn't become suspicious. To them, he was an old man with burdens trailing him like chains.

Today was different, however. The sun was shining brightly, beating down on the small town like a blacksmith beating on an anvil. Merlin woke slowly, and even when he had regained consciousness, he didn't move. Today was one of the rare days where his dreams lingered after sleep. Shadowy figures walked by him surrounded by a fuzzy background. As he concentrated, and with a little prompting from his magic, the dream sharpened, and the figures turned to people.

* * *

_He was walking through the halls of a castle. Servants scurried to and fro with laundry, food, and armour teeming in their arms. It was early morning, and the air smelled like it used to: like dew, meadowgrass, lavender, and horse hair. He turned and walked through a doorway to his left. The wooden door's latch scraped open with a metallic ring, and he pushed it open to reveal a dark room. Arthur's room. It smelled like must and sweaty clothing, but Merlin smiled. Arthur was still sleeping, and it was his job to be his wake-up call. He crept across the floor, avoiding the planks that creaked, and threw the shades open._

_"Up you get!" he shouted. Light flooded the room, tinting the king's chambers golden and crimson. Arthur moaned and turned away from the light._

_"What for?"_

_"A bath," Merlin said brightly, and tried to remove the covers that Arthur was clutching tightly. He gave up and moved away._

_"Where's breakfast?" Arthur demanded drowsily, his eyes drooping._

_"Say 'Ah!'"_

_"Ah?" Merlin leaned over and shoved a muffin in his mouth. Arthur's eyes shot open and he protested loudly, taking the muffin out and spitting its crumbs across the bed. _

* * *

Merlin's eyes flew open and he sat up. That wasn't a dream… it was a memory, back when Arthur was newly king and was discovering all the responsibilities that came with the position.

For a moment, all he felt was shock in remembering. He had forgotten the sound of Arthur's voice. He forgot what Camelot had smelled like. He even forgot how the morning light lit the castle up like a candle. All at once, he remembered again, and for a solitary moment, all he felt was joy.

But then came the rest of the memories.

A sword piercing Arthur's flesh.

The obelisk at Avalon's center.

Arthur's _thank you._

And the grief from a thousand years ago shattered him like a brittle sword. He fell from his bed to weep on the concrete floor, slamming his fists to the ground until they were bloody. His mouth quivered as he mustered the energy to sit on his knees, and he tipped his head back at the ceiling and screamed. The scream was as quiet as a peaceful breeze, but it was as real to Merlin as any audible scream; it still showed the pain of a tortured man.

He wished no one was around so he could scream like he wanted to.

He wanted to scream until his throat bled, his lungs ran out of breath, and his jaw dislocated. He wanted to punch the pavement until his hands were broken and shredded. He wanted to burn his cottage down until there was nothing left but ashes. He wanted to throw himself into the Lake of Avalon and drown.

For surely then he could be with his friend.

He had thought about death more than once after Arthur's death. He thought about it so often, in fact, that he barely went a day without a thought. At one point he was so close that he stood at the water's edge and waded in.

But it wasn't what Arthur wanted.

Every time he attempted something like that, a memory of Arthur came to him, pleading with him to never change, and Merlin would turn away from the lake and return to his cottage.

And Merlin was so sure the pain had dulled, but no. Now a memory had resurfaced, and just like an old wound opening, it was as fresh and as excruciating as it had been when it was new.

It was impossible to bear, and so Merlin did as he always did when he needed to forget.

He cleaned.

He rearranged his small house. He moved the bed to the opposite side of the room, picked up his clothes, moved his refrigerator, turned his table to face the other direction, stacked miscellaneous papers neatly, shifted his wardrobe-

Something clattered to the floor.

Merlin stopped his frantic cleaning frenzy. He stood for a moment, frozen, but then went to investigate. He knelt to the floor and peered under the wardrobe, but his back cracked painfully.

Cursing and howling, Merlin drank the potion to counteract his aging spell. It was doubtful that anyone would enter his cottage now; he had never had visitors before.

Young again, Merlin peered under the wardrobe. Something the size of a banana lurked in the shadows. Pursing his lips, he reached under and grasped it. It was long and smooth, like ivory, and cool to the touch. He pulled it into the light.

Merlin gasped, letting the object clatter to the floor. He jumped to his feet and gazed down upon the object in shock.

It was around the size of his forearm and was curved slightly. It was streaked white and brown and was fringed with tarnished gold. It was fragile and beautiful. One end was wide and hollow, and the other narrowed to a thin point like a funnel. It was a horn, one meant to be blown like a trumpet.

The Horn of Cathbhadh.

Fingers trembling, he took the horn in his hands and felt the smoothness of the surface as Arthur had done centuries ago. He could feel the magic radiating from the small object, and he wondered how the old horn had found its way into his cabin, but then he remembered.

* * *

_He was forty at the time, but didn't look a day past eighteen. He was the court's sorcerer after Guinevere allowed magic in her reign as queen. He was a wreck at the time, wandering the halls late at night for hours on end and barely getting any sleep. One particular night he decided to visit the vaults, to see the old artifacts and remember better times. The guards let him by with slight head nods and stoic faces. He took the key from his cloak and entered one of the vaults. Items were piled and piled on wooden shelves, collecting dust and tarnishing their silver and gold plating. He looked at each of the objects, basking in the magic of some, and the memories of others. He slowly walked through the vault, but then one particular object caught his eye._

_The Horn of Cathbhadh._

_And the most vivid memory of that night surfaced. A ghostly Uther wreaked havoc on the castle that day, attempting to kill Guinevere and trying to kill him for having magic. Uther criticized Arthur's way of ruling the kingdom, and just before he was about to reveal Merlin's secret, Arthur blew the Horn of Cathbhadh to send his father back to the realm where he belonged._

_Merlin's hand shook as he grasped the horn, and it sent soft pulses into his hands, almost like it was choosing him, like it knew his soul. He licked his lips nervously and looked back to the guards, who were facing the other direction. Quick as lightning, he stashed the horn into his cloak._

_For a long time after that day, he tried to muster up the courage to use it. He hid it in a compartment that he created in his wardrobe and looked at it every day. He would take it out and tremble in its powerful magic and think about using it to have one more conversation with Arthur. Merlin thought he would give anything to have that conversation, but when he held it in his hands, he realized he wasn't as brave as Arthur thought he was. He couldn't even bring himself to see the king one more time._

_So he hid the horn away and sealed it with a spell that would only open when he needed the Horn of Cathbhadh the most. _

* * *

Today, the spell had broken, and Merlin understood that the time had come to use the horn. It still scared him—the thought of seeing his other half—but he knew that it would still scare him no matter how long he waited.

Merlin waited all day, contemplating.

_What if Arthur doesn't want to see me? What if he's not there? What if he's disappointed in me? What do I say to him when I see him? Ask him about the weather?_

It had been a thousand years. When he was younger, he used to compose letters to his friend until they piled three feet high, but now he could barely form words.

Night came, and he couldn't sleep.

It was four in the morning when he became fed up.

He shook his head and scowled at himself._ It has been too long,_ he thought._ It's been so long that I've forgotten what it is like to talk to anyone else. I am sure that, when the time comes, I'll know exactly what to say._

Instantly, the world seemed a lot brighter, and a small flare of feeling filled his heart.

For the first time in a thousand years, he had hope.

With that on his mind, he was able to sleep.

Merlin awoke to a crisp summer morning. He rolled out of bed and looked around his cottage and noticed that the morning sun tinted his windows the same color as Camelot's had been. He looked over to his table where the Horn of Cathbhadh rested. It still pulsed the steady beats of magic he had felt the day before, and it calmed his anxieties.

He walked over to it and held it in his hands.

_I am going to talk to Arthur. _

He packed a bag full of food for a couple of days of travel before he remembered which century he was in. All he needed was money and a bus pass, and he would arrive at the Great Stones of Nemeton by late afternoon.

So he only packed a snack and a few hundred dollars and left the cottage.

The ride to the Great Stones of Nemeton was uneventful. He bought a bus ticket after a quick conversation with a young couple, who kindly told him where the ticket booth was. They gave him some strange looks, but didn't ask him any questions.

It was only when he looked down at his hands when he realized that he didn't perform the aging spell on himself that morning.

* * *

The Great Stones of Nemeton was a tourist attraction, which Merlin didn't anticipate. He decided that he would wait until it was dark to blow the horn. He couldn't do it with brightly clothed tourists gawking at the stones and kicking the ancient boulders.

He spent the rest of the day in a nearby town.

Night arrived, and Merlin exited the town. He arrived at the Great Stones of Nemeton and tried to enter, but a guard at the entrance saw his shadowy form and chased him off. Merlin thought for a minute in the cool grass before remembering a spell he had learned a long time ago in one of Gaius' books.

"_Aheardung dyrne._" Merlin whispered, barely louder than the wind. His eyes flashed as gold as the sun, and then he disappeared. Vanished. He could barely keep from laughing aloud as he peered at his arms, which were invisible to his eyes as well.

He checked to make sure the horn was with him, and crept to the wire fences surrounding the Great Stones and scaled them noisily. The guard swept his flashlight beam over to the noise.

"Who's there?" the guard said angrily, walking closer to the fence. "Kids, this place isn't a playground. Screw with something else!"

Merlin, still at the top of the fence, stood frozen in place. He even ceased breathing as the guard passed by. The guard grunted, mumbled something incoherent under his breath, and went back to his post.

Merlin waited for a minute more before carefully climbing down the fence on the other side. His feet touched the ground, and he paused, looking back to make sure the guard didn't hear him, and then began to walk to the Great Stones of Nemeton.

Stones crushed underneath his feet as he walked to the monument, and the night air smelled like the sharp twang of tar and the lingering stench of hot dogs and greasy cheeseburgers. It was so different than when he'd been here last. Then, there were no guards to trick, and it didn't smell like artificial roadways and artificial food. It smelled like westward winds and wildflowers and oncoming rain.

How he missed those days, where Merlin and Arthur went on small adventures together, whether it was a hunting trip, a village being attacked by some old-as-time magical creature, or even chasing some dangerous wizard for days on end.

He stood in the middle of the Great Stones of Nemeton. They towered above him, rectangular stones jutting out of the ground like enormous nails, some of them vertically stacked like wooden blocks.

He took the Horn of Cathbhadh out of his cloak. He stared at it, wondering for the hundredth time whether or not to actually blow it. He was having second, third, and fourth thoughts about his decision, and all the doubts that plagued him the night before came roaring back.

It was too late to turn back now, however. He was already there, past the guard, and with the horn in his hands.

With his whole body visibly shaking like a leaf, he brought the horn to his lips and blew.

The sound was airy and sweet, nicer than the harsh sounds of war horns but harder than the soft tinkle of bells. A magical aura surrounded Merlin, almost tangent in its intensity.

A soft blue portal formed in front of him, glowing slightly and humming like a harp's string.

Merlin's eyes were locked on the doorway as he stowed the horn and entered. The portal closed behind him with a quiet _whoosh_, and both he and the portal vanished.

* * *

The spirit realm was formless; it was all whites and blues and greys. He could see hazy silhouettes in his peripheral vision, but when he turned, they would disappear into the background. He turned in circles, searching, but no one came to him from the mist. He began to panic.

"Arthur!" he yelled into the void. The haze rippled but then settled and stopped.

And no one came from the mist.

Merlin felt the loss like a crushing rock; he ululated and screamed and fell to his knees and ripped at his hair. "Arthur." he whispered tremulously, over and over and over. He said it until his words became a prayer, a chant, a spell.

Something touched his shoulder, and Merlin flinched back, surprised. He turned his head, and like a dream, Arthur was there like an angel with goldenrod hair.

Happiness exploded in Merlin like a bomb, and he jumped to his feet and threw his arms around his friend with so much force that Arthur nearly lost his balance. Merlin stayed there, sobbing into his friend's cool shoulder.

Arthur gently took hold of Merlin's shoulders and pushed him back. He studied Merlin's face.

"You look terrible," he decided, a look of concern lacing his features. Merlin laughed and rubbed at his eyes, but the tears kept coming. "How long has it been, Merlin? A year? Ten?"

Merlin smiled sadly. "It's been a thousand, Arthur."

"Has it really?" Arthur looked shocked. The look of concern returned. "It's been so long."

"It's been forever." all of a sudden, Merlin felt like yelling at his friend. Screaming at him for not returning to his side. All this time, he thought he was only angry at himself, but he was also angry at Arthur for leaving him, for _abandoning_ him. He spent a thousand years in pain while Arthur thought only ten years had passed. The feeling overwhelmed him, but he shoved it down and swallowed. "It turns out that I'm immortal. Fancy that."

A silence settled between the two. Merlin struggled. After so long, he still didn't know what to say to his friend.

"I'm sorry," he choked out. "I couldn't save you. For all my magic, for all my efforts, you still died next to me. I wish…" Merlin's voice cracked. He tried again. "I wish-" he broke down, silently sobbing. Arthur's face grew conflicted as he tried to comfort him. He settled for awkwardly setting a hand on his manservant's shoulder.

"It is not your fault. It was my time. You couldn't stop my fate as much as you could stop the sun from shining. I never blamed you. In fact, I treasured having you as a friend, even though you were a terrible servant." Arthur gave a small smile.

"I really was terrible, wasn't I?"

"Absolute rubbish." They laughed, and for a moment, they both remembered what it felt like to laugh and joke carelessly. But then reality settled back into them.

"I don't know if I can survive without you, Arthur. My whole purpose was to protect you, and I failed. Now I have nothing to live for."

Arthur nodded understandably. "I know how hard this has been for you, but you'll be okay. You don't need me. You never really needed me; it was I who needed you."

Merlin shook his head. "We both needed each other, Arthur. I didn't protect you because of the prophecy, I protected you because you are my friend and I needed you," he paused, pursing his lips. "Do you know what the prophecies used to say about us? We were different sides of the same coin. We were two halves of the same whole, and that neither of us would be the same if we were separated." Merlin chuckled darkly. "They were right, you know. It wasn't the same."

Merlin felt a tugging at his waist. The portal was starting to close. His eyes widened, and he looked up, panicked, at Arthur.

"It's almost time to go." Arthur said, his face falling.

"No! I-I _can't_. You have to come with me. I cannot keep doing this without you!" Merlin's voice rose in pitch, his eyes wide with desperation. The pull was becoming stronger. Arthur reached out his hand and grasped Merlin's.

"You _can_. You are strong, Merlin. Stronger and braver than anyone I have ever known. And you know I cannot come with you. I wouldn't live, really. It would be a sort of half-life. Take heart, Merlin, because I _will_ return."

The pull on Merlin was so strong now that he began sliding away from Arthur. Tear-streaked, Merlin looked at Arthur. "When?"

Arthur swallowed hard. Tears shone in his eyes as he replied. "Soon."

The magic whisked Merlin around, tore his hand from Arthur's, and pushed him in the direction of the exit. He stood there for a moment, words hovering on his lips, things he wanted to say but couldn't. How much he wanted to turn around! He wanted to release Arthur's spirit into the world, but he knew Arthur didn't want that.

So, with tears filling his eyes and blurring his vision, he exited the spirit realm.

* * *

Outside, Merlin cried silently in the navy blue darkness. He rocked back and forth and beat his hands on the rocky ground, grabbing stones by the dozen and throwing them in random directions. He ripped his hair out in chunks and tore his clothing.

"_Arthur._" he croaked.

In the spirit realm, Arthur cried with all the restless souls of the dead. He brought his arms up to his golden hair and screamed something otherworldly. He wished he still had flesh and blood to rip and tear. He wished his tears were real. He wished he could feel pain. He wished he really could return to the land of the living.

"_Merlin._" Arthur whispered. He looked around for the manservant, but Merlin was gone, and Arthur was already fading.

And then he was gone.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading my story, and please let me know what you think so I'll know whether or not to write others like it.
> 
> I love feedback about how I did!


End file.
